


And I say your name in hopes you'll hear it in the stars

by sleepy_fl0wers



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, 5+2 things, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT ITS ACTUALLY REALLY, BUT MAKE IT COTTAGECORE, Beta read !! thank u to my best friend ily, Comfort No Hurt, Floriography, Flowers, IT ISNT UNREQUITED GEORGE IS JUST AN IDIOT, Language of Flowers, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Obliviousness, Picnics, Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unrequited Love, background karlnap pog ? background karlnap pog !!, but surprise, i might add some more tags !!, i wanted to make it pg but my need to say fuck didn't let me, rated teen and up for swearing, so much of it, sorry :(, you can barely call it angst really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_fl0wers/pseuds/sleepy_fl0wers
Summary: George allows himself to stand motionless for a second and close his eyes. He can hear every small sound of the place that surrounds him. A total quiet still accompanied by its beautiful, and natural gentle sounds, calls, a unique stillness that manages to make its presence different, unlike any other time he’s been here, no matter if it’s been more days of his life than he can even picture, let alone count.He likes the silence, he knows it. He’s in control when it’s present.He looks around the yellow schemes of long, almost endless pasture filled with different wildflowers, book in hand, ready to try and identify as many as he can, and he does, staring at every petal like his life depends on it, and the tranquility of silence’s lingering presence fills him as safely as the air that travels through his lungs.Until it doesn’t.Aka. 5 Times George gives Dream flowers, and12 times Dream gives him flowers back
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	And I say your name in hopes you'll hear it in the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ! Thank you very much for clicking on this silly little thing I'm working on ! It means a lot <3
> 
> We all know how the deal goes, please, please don't shove the ship into their faces. Not because they're not uncomfortable with it it means we have to be disrespectful. Please, don't even think of sending this or mentioning this (or probably any other work of fiction of this kind, please be respectful to authors.) on any kind of comments or donos to them, but recommendations to other members of the fandom of any kind are super super pog !!
> 
> And ! the moment either of them speak about not feeling comfortable with works published about them anymore, i will gladly delete this completly ! what matters most is the cc's feelings and wishes.
> 
> Folks, I will not try and decieve you; I don't like this first chapter.  
> It feels kind of unnatural to me writing something that isn't absoute full on pining, and i wanted to challenge myself and try to make this in a different style ! I promise the second chapter will be way way better than this one, and i hope you decide to stay around and keep reading to see for yourself :]
> 
> Fic title is from [Carry me out by Mitski](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddQOfqZZ5LM), and chapter title is from [Nobody by Mitski](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVZqDCG2VrA) !! Mitski i miss u sm please come back ily
> 
> THANK YOU TO MY BEST FRIEND FOR BETA READING THIS FOR ME AND WAITING FOR ME TO WRITE THIS FOR LITERALLY WEEKS I LOVE YOU RED !!!! PLEASE GO CHECK [THEIR FIC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459680/chapters/69738657) OUT RN ITS SO SO COOL AND AWESOME

1.

George can’t remember a time in which he didn’t feel completely and absolutely enamored by flowers.

He remembers so very clearly growing up surrounded by buildings and dry, brown lands, with nothing to offer that wasn’t dust and a sense of haziness that came with, somehow, being the only person around that didn’t feel love and admiration for the millions of newly invented man-made machines such as trains and lightbulbs.

He remembers, gazing out the window to be met with a gray sky, sickly red undertones that made him sigh in exasperation when he was a child. He can so clearly mark the boredom and dullness the city brought with its faux promise of modernity; of something people seemed to so deeply long for, and yet, inevitably he was simply met with the fact that even born into this world of innovations and a straight-forward path towards the future, he could only long for a ticket away from all this light, and all this noise that plagued his senses, and didn’t let him _breathe_.

He can pinpoint the exact moment in which he simply _knew_ that he belonged away from all these scrapped pieces of copper and metal. The moment his eyes met with infinite clean patches of yellow grass -which he was later told by his mother, was actually green.- and an ocean of beautiful flowers, laying undisturbed and calm among the blanket of quiet nature.

He was oh so young, and nonetheless, he immediately knew that he wanted nothing more than to spend his life between creeks of flowing, crystal-clear water, and beds of flowers and leaves of growing plants. Even if he couldn’t enjoy the colors painted on the garden he loved so fervently.  
His father had been disappointed his job had taken them somewhere so far away from the metropolitan city London was shaping itself into, but as soon as he witnessed the beautiful landscape and the tranquility a small village in which everyone seemed to know one another held, he, just as George’s mother, and George himself, had been ecstatic to see what a life like this could bring for them.

Even now, he doesn’t think he minds that greatly not being able to look at the color palettes of all the flowers he so greatly cares for, not when he can wake up and look around the woods he knows like the back of his hand. He can wander mindlessly, and feel the rumble of nature, the songs only the creatures and the trees seem to know, and engrave it deep within his memory, touch the wood with the tips of his fingers until he can carve the lines onto his own hands, feel the soil beneath his feet, cold and grounding, and the wind graze his face with its gentle bite.

He loves it, irremediably and so, so _deeply_ , more than he can say he has ever loved anything else.

This, the entirety of the forest and the meadows, and somehow, someway, everything deeply rooted to the purity of this land, everything the sun touches with it’s gentle and soothing rays of warmth, is his home.

He spends his days content and calm, pacing around the long grass and baking endless goods of blueberries and chamomile, reading, drinking in all information he could possibly ever wish for, and, most importantly of them all, tending to his garden, with all the love and the care he holds within his body.

The promise of a new day arises, a sunny March morning, and George wakes to the premise of a windy day. He gets up, and basks in the sunrise’s light, drowsy and premeditated sleepy haze surrounding him so vividly he is sure he can see them as if they were dust particles in the air.  
Temporary exhaustion weighs him down, his eyelids close and open slowly, and the premise of more sleep is something he is strongly considering at this moment.

Nonetheless, he breathes in the biting cold air and sits up on his bed to gaze out the window.  
The meadow is clear, light yellow melding with darker tones under the shade of trees and bushes. George feels his heart clench inside his chest, rapid beatings he can hear in his ears echoing like the melody of drums, loud and clear.

Alright, maybe, _just maybe,_ he cares a bit more about not getting to see the colour of his garden in its full splendor more than he lets on.

Maybe, just maybe, he wishes deeply he could see them all, the shades and the way light reflects on different tones, experience the colour of them as vividly as he can the scent of the fields of tulips and bushes of roses, and the taste of his tea and pastries. Maybe, he feels like he’s never fully lived, lacking the knowledge of these experiences. If he does, he doesn’t dare think about it more than he has to.

After allowing himself a well-deserved session of self-reflection, and shifting in the limbo between sleep and consciousness, he finally gets up.  
The covers, a gentle pastel yellow practically glow, and George can’t help but smile sadly once his eyes linger on the still well made side of his bed, untouched. _Empty_.  
He pays it no mind and exits his quiet room, the creaking of the door shutting behind him a shadow looming over his quiet steps, echoing deep within the wood of the even quieter cottage.

It’s deafening sometimes, the silence. Frigid and yet still it makes him feel as if his skin is sizzling with the warmth of being home; either exactly what he needs to get through the day, or the total opposite. He can’t tell which one it is this morning. It just feels draining, miles, and miles away from him, out of reach from his hands, that for some reason he can’t explain, are equally as empty, equally as desolate.

 _He needs to stop this train of thought right now._ He can’t let himself go down this familiar path of yearning and feeling hollow all at once. It never ends well for him when he indulges in them, tries to pry into what he’s feeling, into what he needs, what he lacks.  
He needs a distraction, and so as quickly as he can, he goes on about his morning routine, washing his face, getting dressed, and eating breakfast, all while humming gentle tunes to himself with a cup of tea alongside him, and a piece of toast and strawberry jam gently propped up on his plate.

The moment George exits his house the gentle spikes of heat blooming around him - courtesy of the arrival of spring- make themselves present almost immediately. It’s overwhelming, and he quickly makes his way out on the clean, overgrown patch of grass that separates his house and porch from one another, blurring in rough edges and always leaving him wondering where his _home_ and its natural feeling of belonging that fills him, clicking in a deep place in his soul like long-lost puzzle pieces ends, and where it begins.

Where does George’s soul end, and where does it begin?

Before he knows it, he’s gotten to the first patch of the meadow he knows so well, and just as he expects, it welcomes him as wholeheartedly as always, with its inky, long patches of flowers with petals so delicate and perfect they might as well be an oil painting, and leaves of different shades and shapes anywhere his eyes can reach.

He breathes in, and everything is at peace again.  
He can feel the breeze against his face. Each time he inhales, the air travels through his lungs, leaves a trail of freshness and raw calm deep within his body, every muscle, every vein, and artery, every part of him that inevitably makes him truly _himself._

George allows himself to stand motionless for a second and close his eyes. He can hear every small sound of the place that surrounds him. A total quiet still accompanied by its beautiful, and natural gentle sounds, calls, a unique stillness that manages to make its presence different, unlike any other time he’s been here, no matter if it’s been more days of his life than he can even picture, let alone count.

He breathes in again. It’s soft in a way he’s fond of. It’s quiet and familiar, and everything he cherishes, cause he’s oh so used to it. To the talking to himself at times the silence weighs him down, and the humming of soft piano tunes that live ingrained in his memory.  
He likes the silence, he knows it. He’s in control when it’s present.  
He looks around the yellow schemes of long, almost endless pasture filled with different wildflowers, book in hand, ready to try and identify as many as he can, and he does, staring at every petal like his life depends on it, -it’s honestly a challenging task considering he can’t guide himself by colors as any other person would- and the tranquility of silence’s lingering presence fills him as safely as the air that travels through his lungs.

Until it doesn’t.

He hears the sound of leaves rustling behind him, and twists his body around to try and catch a glimpse of whatever the sound could have been.  
He knows better than to immediately panic and run in a frenzy of worry, or scream at whatever is hiding behind him. Normally, when he’s completely alone in the woods, the sounds and rustles he hears end up being nothing other than animals passing by.  
He is no one to feel annoyed by it. Even if he feels like the forest is as much of his home as it is for the creatures living in it, this is, irremediably, their territory, and he is nothing but a familiar stranger to them.

But the moment he turns, he knows this is not some rabbit or fox passing by.  
His peripheral vision almost immediately catches the gaze of another person staring right back at him.

The only thing he finds himself thinking when he analyzes the man standing a few feet away from him is that _holy shit why is he so bloody tall._

The shadow of the tree he’s underneath only serves to make George feel even more intimidated by this stranger -that not only looks strong enough to rob him and leave him stunned and confused in the middle of the meadow, but seems to smile at him in a way that just makes him freeze on the spot.- casually staring at him and not saying a word.  
The silence he once thought was comfortable when he sat alone, trying to have a calm afternoon of solitude, is now smoldering, uncomfortable in a way that makes him feel like he melts onto a puddle on the ground out of second-hand embarrassment, and the awkward nature of the silence sticks to his skin like sweat, words trapped inside his mouth.  
Or maybe it’s just the need to scream and shout for help, cause there’s a _goddamned fucking stranger staring at him_. -and fuck, the sun casting it’s overwhelmingly heavy rays onto his skin is definitely _not_ helping the amount of pressure he feels forming around him.- 

Before he knows it, he’s blurting out the first thing that comes to his mind, ignoring every sense of self-preservation that screams at him to be calm and not make this fucking scary stranger angry at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” He says, and the words have such an offended ring to them he can’t help but think that he sounds more annoyed than terrified out of his goddamned mind. “What are you looking at?”

The stranger looks surprised at the tone he’s being spoken to in, and he stares blankly for one more second with a surprised expression, before seemingly deciding that he’s not very fond of the situation he finds himself in, a frown littering his freckled face, and his yellow eyes -George knows they’re probably a rich tone of green. They have the same dull shade of yellow as the leaves of the tree above him.- sparkling with mirth for a second, before the shimmer is gone.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry,” the man starts. He doesn’t sound sorry at all, quite on the contrary, it has tints of accusatory intent, and it takes George an incredible amount of self control to not give him an unimpressed look and a roll of his eyes. Something about this stranger feels off, almost like he’s trying too hard to make an impression on him. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t simply stood up and darted to his house as quickly as possible.  
Whatever it is that keeps him sitting on the ground, waiting for him to keep speaking, makes him raise his head defyingly too. He relishes in the warm feeling of speaking to another human being in what feels like months. 

“You see, I was beginning to feel concerned, ‘cause you were watching those flowers so intently,” his tone takes a mocking toll, but it’s light-hearted in its own weird way. George would go as far as to say it’s slightly _intriguing,_ but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he suppresses it, asphyxiates it with a pillow until it’s gone, leaving a lingering fuzzy feeling in his stomach. 

“I couldn't help but be worried.” The guy smirks, the corner of his lips curl up, showing slight dimples on only the right side of his face. “Those colourful buds too complicated for you?”

Oh, this time, George doesn’t suppress the purely unamused glare he throws at the stupid comment. He takes pride in himself when he can see the smirk of the man in front of him falter, and melt onto an awkward smile that seems to be held together by mere hope of not looking too ridiculous. He raises an eyebrow for comedic effect, before finally answering the question he’s been asked before, with a question of his own.

“I’m colourblind.” He states, a-matter-of-factly. The way in which the blonde guy’s face in front of him falls after a second of realization is priceless. His eyes and his mouth both open wide. His expression can only be described as _mortified._ George feels giddy with the euphoria of winning whatever kind of conversation they were having, a childish one at that, but still, a victory is a victory.

“You’re technically… making fun of a colourblind person.” The man’s eyes open impossibly wider, and George wishes so badly he could see red, just to get an idea of how coloured this man’s ears must look. He can feel the heat radiating from his face all the way here, even sitting far away from the guy. “That’s morally wrong. You’re bullying me.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The stranger immediately perks up. He looks so genuinely distressed, and for a second, George feels bad for him. _Just for a second._

“I promise I didn’t mean it like that! I just looked over, and you looked so concentrated, and I had this, weird urge to talk to you, and I’ve never been very good with self-control!” He’s rambling now, and something about the absurd situation has George stifling a laugh.  
This tall man he was so scared of for a moment is hurriedly trying to apologize to him, and it’s hilarious -George might never admit a part of him thinks there’s something cute in the way he keeps on babbling sentence after sentence, desperately trying to convince him that he wasn’t trying to be rude, but attempting to approach him in a way that didn’t make him look awkward-.

“It’s okay.” He assures him, letting the laugh go through finally. “You didn’t know.”

“I feel so bad, oh my god, I’m so sorry.” In a second, he’s slapping the palm of his hand on his forehead, a scowl painting his face. “I’m- I’m Dream, by the way, but you can call me Absolute Moron. I really fucked that one up…”

George laughs, all fear he felt already long gone, and he can’t help but roll his eyes, smile bright, knowing he most likely can’t deceive Dream with his act of fake annoyance and hurt, because he starts laughing too, face still a shade darker than the tone of his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck.  
It takes a lot of strength for George to get rid of his grin, instead offering Dream a tight closed-lip smile.

“Hello, Absolute Moron.” He greets. Dream visibly lets his shoulders loosen up when he hears the tone of his voice, mocking, but not really offended. He wonders how it’s even possible he feels this lightheaded and relaxed after nothing other than a few laughs with Dream, who he met, well, less than half an hour ago. “I’m George.”

He hums approvingly as an answer, over-exaggeratedly in thought, before nodding his head, and walking forward towards the spot in which George has been sitting this whole time.  
Dream’s body stiffens up for a second again, looking towards him with a look that’s clearly asking for permission to sit down. George stares back for a second, thinking about the odds of this being an elaborate mugging strategy, before nodding his head and allowing Dream to take a seat next to him on top of the soft grass.

“Well George, I’m terribly sorry I bullied you for being colourblind,” He looks away for a second, guilt still trickling through his eyes, before deciding to continue speaking, offering George a smile that looks _way_ too sincere and open for him to deal with calmly.

“It’s fine. I’ll just have to avoid you forever to not get hate-crimed by you.”

“Hey! If you keep it up I'll have no other choice but hate-criming you.”

George snickers, and Dream full on laughs, cackles like a tea-kettle, and there’s something about the sound that makes him feel good, even with how utterly ridiculous and weird it is.  
Knowing he’s responsible for making him laugh like that alights something, deep, deep, deep in his gut. He wants to tell himself he would feel it with anyone else’s laugh, that he would have this bizarre feeling of joy alight in his chest if it was a different person he held this conversation with.

He wants to think it’s not that it’s Dream, but that it’s a person, that his own voice isn’t the one he has to drown the silence with. -He knows it’s not true, but still, ignorance is bliss, and he lets himself relish calmly in the numbness in his limbs, enveloped with the warmth of the sun, and the warmth of Dream’s laugh.

He thinks, maybe, just perhaps, he can be proud to say he’s made a new friend when his conversation with Dream excitedly keeps on for a long time he doesn’t bother on keeping track of, but the sun is not so high in the sky anymore, once he looks up.  
Even if it’s nowhere near setting yet, and he doesn’t need to leave for another hour or so, there’s a quiet lingering sense of exhaustion tugging at his eyes.  
It’s been months since he’s laughed this much in a single afternoon, and once the high of bubbly chatter and laughter begins to wear off, the beginning of a headache plaguing him makes itself present, persistent, and strong.

Dream seems to notice, gifting him one last loud, heartfelt laugh, before they’re both getting up from the ground, and saying their goodbyes.  
He’s about to turn and leave on his way to go back home, but he can feel Dream’s gaze on him, lingering and intense for a few seconds. There’s something about the strength it radiates that makes him stay put for a second, too scared to leave him doubting whatever the hell he seems to be thinking so hard about. He can practically listen to Dream’s loud thoughts at this point, and he fondly - _fondly? where did that come from?_ , he asks himself.- looks down at his own shoes, and he suddenly remembers something he has inside his bag.

George quickly opens it, pulling out his book, and flipping through the pages until he finds the one he’s looking for. A pressed yellow Alstroemeria greets him, and he takes in his hands with slow and thoroughly soft movements. It seems to happen whenever he touches and deals with flowers. He turns careful, caring, loving.  
Dream, somehow, catches up in the change of demeanor, and only follows George’s hands, surprised when they’re offering him the dry flower.

“Sorry it’s pressed. It’s the only one I found today, and I wanted to keep it safe.” He says. 

“Alstroemerias mean,” George seems to hesitate for a second. “They mean friendship.”

Dream only shifts his look between the flower, and George’s face repeatedly. He wants to say something, anything, but the words are stuck on his throat, heavy and suffocating in the most satisfying way. He truly was not expecting this at any point in time, and he desperately wants to accept the flower, take care of it, as he would for any token of friendship he’s been given before, but George mentioned wanting to keep it safe, and he suddenly feels like by accepting, he’d be taking away from George something he wanted to keep. He doesn’t like the burn the mere thought of it leaves searing in his throat.

George just stays still uncomfortably for a second, scared he’s read all this wrong, and ready to tell Dream to just forget about it, and dart off before the shame can get to his brain and kill him on the spot.  
Dream seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s in though, and smiles at George before chuckling. 

“That is the cheesiest thing you could have given me, y’know?” 

“You arsehole, I’m trying to be nice!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading !! I hope you enjoyed ! Comments are so appreciated, they give me so so much serotonin and make me cry and i read and answer them all !! u can follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/strawberrypandy) too !! i love making new friends :) 
> 
> Alstroemerias mean Friendship ! :)


End file.
